I write into the fissures

which slip across my façade

like ice cracking in early

spring rivers. Nothing’s fixed,

but changed.  A broken cup

is still broken. Like now,

after years of sadness

inscribed into my skin,

I’m still who I was at ten,

but changed. Each line I write,

each word, fits another bit

into the kaleidoscope’s mosaic.

Each moment becomes a whole,

before fracturing to reform again.

(May 22, 2018)